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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28885329">Erase Me</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/hxllowsandhorcruxes/pseuds/hxllowsandhorcruxes'>hxllowsandhorcruxes</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alcohol, Anger, Angst, Banter, Blaise Zabini is a Good Friend, Blood, Blood and Gore, Denial, Denial of Feelings, Draco Malfoy &amp; Pansy Parkinson Friendship, Draco Malfoy Has Issues, Draco Malfoy Needs a Hug, Draco Malfoy is Bad at Feelings, Draco Malfoy is Clueless About Muggle Things, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, Good Theodore Nott, Hate to Love, Hogwarts, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Hurt/Comfort, Inappropriate Use of Wands (Harry Potter), Love/Hate, Magic, Mudblood, Pining Draco Malfoy, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Potions, Regret, Scars, Sex, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Shower Sex, Slow Burn, Slytherin, Smut, Stress, The Dark Mark, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Wands, dramione - Freeform, everyone is in pain, kiss, neither person wants to admit their feelings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 08:56:24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>16,333</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28885329</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/hxllowsandhorcruxes/pseuds/hxllowsandhorcruxes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The war is over. </p><p>Voldemort is dead, and yet, Hermione can't seem to forget about the scars his presence left behind. It's only when she finds a strange diary, tucked into a forgotten shelf in the library, that things begin to change for her.</p><p>Because the diary has a strange ability: to control whoever she writes about. And Draco Malfoy quickly becomes her first target.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>28</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. 𝐼</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Hermione sighed. </p><p>It was the kind of sigh that attempted to draw out all the tension with it—but now, it failed, and she was left feeling just as breathless and lightheaded as before. So instead of dwelling on it, she began to pick at a scab on the back of her hand. </p><p>But not the scar. </p><p>Never the scar. </p><p>Because the scar was different, and she was afraid to even touch it. It was almost like her mind had convinced her that touching it would make it all the more real—the experience of getting it, what it meant, or how much Hermione despised looking at it when her sleeve rolled up too far. </p><p>She pushed the thought away abruptly, noticing the way her pulse had begun to race at the mere idea of the letters now permanently carved into her arm. </p><p>Mudblood. </p><p>The etching was messy, but of course it was. It wasn't as if Bellatrix had been taking her time, trying to make each letter perfectly shaped with the tip of her dagger. But still, the inconsistency of the script caused Hermione to pause as she looked down at it briefly.</p><p>One second passed.</p><p>Two. </p><p>And then she tore her eyes away, because suddenly, she was wincing. And she felt more than stupid doing it, because what was she so upset about, really?</p><p>A scar?</p><p>Harry'd had a scar all his life. And one that was even more difficult to conceal than hers. She couldn't even begin to imagine how he'd felt all this time, having to look in the mirror and see a reminder of what happened to his parents—to him—all those years ago in Godric's Hollow. </p><p>But she supposed his scar was easier to look at. It wasn't a word. It was just a pretty little lightning bolt.</p><p>Merlin. She caught herself wondering if she would rather have a lightning bolt carved into her arm before she shoved back from the lonely table in the library, taking the stack of books she hadn't bothered to flip open with her. </p><p>That was another part of it all that made Hermione wince now. Reading. </p><p>Before, it had been her favorite thing. To come into the library and pick out a fresh selection of books she'd only read once or twice already. After all, there wasn't much in the library that Hermione hadn't read. </p><p>But now, things were different. Because the library itself was different. </p><p>The books, as well as the walls they rested against, were new. The shelves, too. And the floors. And the desks. And everything else. The smell of chemicals was there every time she opened up a new title, the spines cracking for the very first times, and the pages felt fresh when she touched them. She hated it more than anything—that feeling. Because it was just another stark reminder that though everyone around her might have been pretending that things were perfectly fine again—that they didn't just fight in a bloody war and somehow manage to come out alive on the other side—it wasn't the truth. Because things were not fine. </p><p>Hermione wasn't fine. </p><p>But more often than not, she felt as though she was the only one who wasn't. The only one that couldn't help but remember the dying faces of her classmates as she was forced to leave them behind in crumbling hallways and bloodied courtyards. The sound of killing curses as they were snarled from Death Eater's lips and struck against the bodies of people she knew. People she loved. </p><p>People who were now dead, while Hermione remained alive. Alive—whether she wanted to be or not. </p><p>Maybe you could call it surviver's guilt. That's what Ginny Weasley had told her a few weeks before, when she'd been sitting on the train on the way back to Hogwarts. She'd been so sick that day—her face turning green at the mere thought of having to put on those robes, and walk across that courtyard where so many people had laid dying, staring up at the darkness of the sky as they took their last breaths. </p><p>"But 'Mione, you can't think about all that," Ginny put her hand on Hermione's arm, in a spot where—maybe she'd forgotten—Hermione's cursed scar now lived. It had taken everything in her not to yank away. </p><p>"If you let yourself live in the past for too long, you'll forget to enjoy the present."</p><p>Hermione had wanted to laugh, then.</p><p>Enjoy the present. </p><p>Maybe Ginny could enjoy it. Maybe Ginny could forget the few battles she was involved in. Maybe Ginny could close her eyes without seeing Bellatrix's sneering face hovering above her, the tip of a cold, metal blade digging into her skin. After all, she hadn't been the one to follow Harry around for countless months, searching for Horcruxes that Hermione had half convinced herself they'd never find. </p><p>Winning had been a fluke. </p><p>She'd never really expected for them to win. To go down with a hell of a fight? Yes. But win? No. </p><p>Though now, it didn't feel like they'd won. Because she couldn't even all the people she'd lost on her fingers. All the people who would never again open their eyes, or take a deep breath because Hermione wasn't good enough. </p><p>Because she hadn't saved them. </p><p>She sighed again. This time, it was even less relieving than before, and she forced herself to one of the bookshelves, hoping that maybe—just maybe—she'd come across something that would spark some sort of life back into her. More often than not, she felt dead. Not as dead as those bodies in the courtyard—but still. Dead. </p><p>It was a black spine with no lettering that caused her to pause, running her pointer finger along its almost scaly feeling surface. And as she gripped it between her fingertips, yanking it off the shelf and into her splayed out hands, she scanned her deep brown eyes over its title. </p><p>Except, there was no title. </p><p>It was just a blank cover, and it made Hermione furrow her brows. Because now, she was confused. All the books in the library were brand new. So why would there be one that was obviously misprinted? It should have been thrown away, not tucked onto the shelves like it belonged. Someone should have caught the mistake. </p><p>But Hermione supposed that with everything else going on—rebuilding the castle to look like it once had; trying to get everyone to somehow forget that there'd been a massacre throughout each and every hallway—a single misprinted book was the least of anyone's worries. </p><p>Somehow, though, her annoyance persisted. It didn't matter, and she knew that it didn't. But it felt rather good to get riled up about something pointless once in a while.</p><p>Without giving it much thought, she found herself tucking it under her arm before leaving the library, planning on complaining to Harry, or Ron, or someone about the librarian's negligence. That's one thing she hadn't lost the knack for—complaining. Harry and Ron certainly made sure to remind her of it daily. </p><p>It was only when she stepped out into the hallway that she realized she wasn't alone any longer, and stopped dead in her tracks, clutching the book tightly to her chest and drawing in a quick, panicked breath. </p><p>Because there was someone standing right in front of her, so close that she'd nearly run into them on the way out of the library. And within a split second, she knew exactly who it is, if not by his bright white hair then by the pale hue of his skin, even more sickly and corpse-like than she remembered. </p><p>She wondered if he'd been ill recently—Draco. But then again, he'd always looked pale. Ron once compared him to one of the ghosts in third year, and Hermione hadn't ever thought to disagree. This seemed to be a new low, though, even for him. It looked as if he hadn't been able to sleep in months. Either that, or he'd vomited up everything in his system, leaving him drained and empty. There was a darkness under his eyes that seemed permanent, and even the sharpness he used to hold in his glare appeared to be missing. Like whatever fire used to fuel it had long burned out and reduced to ash. </p><p>But he was looking down at her now in the same way he always had. Like she was scum. Like she was nothing. His gaze flickered over her face, and his lips twisted down like he was grimacing at a bug under his shoe.  </p><p>She observed with a slight pang of satisfaction that he didn't look anywhere near pleased that she was in his way, or near him at all. But she was close enough now to catch a whiff of his cologne, and the faint scent of... what was it? She scrunched up her nose for a moment, trying to place it. </p><p>...ah, yes. That's what it was. </p><p>Spearmint.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. 𝐼𝐼</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He was taller now, she thought. No, she was sure. She'd noticed it over the last few months as he passed by in the hallways. But there were other differences, too. </p><p>He wasn't the same cocky, arrogant boy he used to be. Well, maybe he was. But if that part of him still existed, he'd hidden it away far past the reach of Hermione's eyes. He was different now. Quieter. Less aggravating. It almost seemed like he'd lost the will to speak to anyone—not that Hermione was complaining—and spent most of his time by himself. Even his old Slytherin friends didn't seem to want anything to do with him. He was isolated. Alone. And Hermione almost caught herself wondering if they might not be very different after all. </p><p>But regardless of his new attitude, she still found herself thinking of him as the same arrogant twat from before the war. </p><p>His aggravating, crooked smile. His sneers and scoffs whenever she spoke. The way he would do anything and everything in his power to get under her skin. The name calling was one thing. It was easier to handle once she'd decided that she didn't care about the word "Mudblood", or the opinion of Draco Malfoy and his heartless snake of a father. But what got to her more was the whispering as she passed by. The pointing and snickering under his breath as she hurried off to find Harry and Ron. </p><p>A few times, she'd caught on to the things he was saying. </p><p>More than once, he'd been insulting her hair, and the way it puffed out first year. He'd made some sort of comment about doubting that she owned a hairbrush at all. The next summer, Hermione had been sure to find a way to calm the frizz of her thick mane, containing it into more defined curls and feeling satisfied with the way it turned out. Though when it came time to return to Hogwarts second year, Malfoy didn't seem to notice any change.</p><p>On another occasion, he'd started making fun of her parents after catching a glimpse of them in Diagon Alley. Only, he wasn't mocking the fact that they were muggles, like Hermione may have expected. Instead, he picked on her mother's nose, and her father's face in general, claiming that in the case of the Granger family, two negatives certainly didn't make a positive. </p><p>Hermione made sure that day not to let Harry and Ron see her cry. Showing emotion hadn't been one of her strong suits back then, and even now, that fact certainly hadn't changed. But as she glanced up from the ground, the sight of Draco Malfoy's dark green and black robes blocking her view of the hallway, she couldn't bring herself to tell him to move. </p><p>It was like he was paralyzing her with those ashy eyes of his, and for reasons she couldn't possibly comprehend, she looked back down. Part of her was afraid to hold his stare for too long. In all honesty, he made her feel exposed. Naked, almost. And she hated it. Because even after all those years of knowing that Malfoy's bark was undoubtedly bigger than his bite, she couldn't bring herself to push the fear away. </p><p>"Granger," his voice came out tight, like he was aggravated to even have to acknowledge her presence. </p><p>"Malfoy,"</p><p>She wondered suddenly if he ever thought about that day. That day when Bellatrix had given her the scar. He'd been there, standing just a little ways away while she writhed and screamed for help, her arm burning with searing hot pain as the knife dug through her skin. </p><p>And he'd just watched. Watched, and done absolutely nothing for the girl he'd grown up with since they were eleven. She hadn't even seen him flinch for a second, and it had been then, through the foggy haze of her tortured mind, that she'd finally come to terms with the reality of how deeply he hated her. </p><p>"You're in my way, Granger." He ground out, but she didn't move. She wasn't particularly in the mood to be friendly. </p><p>"Walk around me, then."</p><p>He scoffed, hesitating for a beat as if to argue again, and then was gone. Just like that—took a long step around her and left her standing alone in the corridor. It was almost like he was never there at all as she blinked towards the wall, her throat feeling slightly tighter than usual. But even once he'd disappeared around the corner behind her, she could still smell a whiff of his cologne, the faint scent of spearmint hovering around her. He must bathe in it, she thought, and scrunched up her nose. </p><p>It was a new least favorite smell of hers, she decided. No matter that she actually quite liked it before Malfoy had come in and ruined yet another thing she enjoyed.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The Gryffindor common room was, in a word, overwhelming. Ginny and Neville were sitting in the corner near the fireplace, laughing about something Hermione didn't have the energy to get involved in. A few students were playing chess, some reading the Daily Prophet, and some lounging about with relaxed expressions that made her want to scream. She caught a glimpse of Ron's red hair out of the corner of her eye, making her smile at least the tiniest bit before she turned towards him. </p><p>He was sitting with Harry on the couch, the newest edition of the Prophet unfolded on his lap, and Hermione settled in next to them, still trying to shove the thought of Malfoy and his pale face from her mind. </p><p>"What is it today?" she prompted, propping her arm up on the backrest. </p><p>"They found another one," Ron shoved the paper into her hands, "hiding out somewhere in the countryside. Apparently he was half mad when they came across him. Suppose Azkaban can't so much more damage."</p><p>Hermione glanced down at the headline, feeling sudden sharp pain in her chest as her eyes scanned over the words. The bold font was like a slap in the face.</p><p>Another Death Eater—Discovered and Convicted for War Crimes</p><p>Hermione pushed it away, back into Ron's lap. </p><p>"I don't want to read this," she mumbled, and it took all her energy to ignore the way Ron began rolling his eyes. </p><p>She wasn't surprised, nor was she as offended as she used to be. Because she and Ron had been a slowly dying star for months now. It felt strange, she supposed, having been so close to someone all of your life, only for them to suddenly decide that you're not worth trying for anymore. It had upset her at first to watch him drift away. To scoff whenever she came close to a breakdown or tell her she was being overly sensitive about things she needed to move on from. But now... she realized that she couldn't try and hold on to someone who didn't want to hold on to her. He'd changed, and she figured she couldn't blame him. </p><p>After all, she'd changed too. And she'd changed even more than he had. </p><p>Harry was silent next to him, just observing her as she began to mess with the cuff of her sleeve, picking a thread away from the stitching and pulling at it until it unraveled.</p><p>Her mind drifted back to Malfoy, although she wished it wouldn't. She blamed it on the Prophet—on that headline she wished she'd never read. She was only thinking about him now because Malfoy was a Death Eater. Or... used to be. She wasn't sure whether the title still stood. She was sure he still had the Mark. But on second thought... now that its Master was dead, had the Mark remained? It must have, since they'd failed to fade away the first time Voldemort was defeated. Though, in hindsight, he wasn't really gone then...</p><p>She wondered suddenly why Malfoy wasn't convicted like the rest of them. He wasn't a murderer, as far as she knew. So maybe the Ministry didn't have enough evidence to lock him away. But what about his attempt on Dumbledore's life? Regardless of the fact that Snape was the one to cast the Killing Curse, it had been Draco's intent. Just because he hadn't been able to bring himself to do it didn't excuse his other crimes, beginning with letting the Death Eaters into Hogwarts in the first place. </p><p>The thought of it made her shiver, but the truth still stood: Draco Malfoy hadn't gone to Azkaban. He was back at school, along with Hermione and the rest of the 8th years. He'd gotten off with a seemingly cleaned slate, and she couldn't help but feel as if justice had yet to be served. </p><p>Her mind finally snapped back into the present, and she became aware of the gaping hole she'd created in her sleeve. "Merlin," she sighed, pulling her fingertips away and forcing herself to stand. "I need to change. If you'll excuse me..."</p><p>She didn't make eye contact with anyone as she hurried up the stairs. Just kept her head down. It was easier that way, she'd realized. It meant she didn't have to fake any smiles. </p><p>Her dorm room looked the same as it used to. But it—like everything else—had changed. The bed was new. She could tell by the way it failed to creak when she flopped down on it at night. The floorboards had been replaced. The stone walls were re-grouted. And the old crack in the ceiling she used to trace with her eyes was now missing. </p><p>She wondered if that part of the roof had been blown open during the attack. Probably. </p><p>She also wondered if anyone had died by the foot of her bed. </p><p>Slipping a new sweater over her shoulders and pulling it down until it was fitted over her waist, she peered into the mirror by her bedside. She'd gotten a bit thinner over the past few months. Not on purpose. It was just that food didn't seem to taste as good anymore. Plus, she'd started exercising to distract herself from her thoughts, so that probably hadn't helped to keep any weight on her bones. She wondered idly if Malfoy would make fun of her for being too thin. He'd say something about her looking like a skeleton, and he'd be right. There wasn't much else of her left besides that. </p><p>She only realized she wasn't alone anymore as she turned, catching the sight of Harry standing in the doorway. His glasses glinted in the light of the sun-filled windows, and she softened at his presence, catching his openly concerned expression.</p><p>"I'll be back down in a second," she gestured at herself, smiling weakly. She was sure that Harry knew it wasn't real. "Just had to pick out a new sweater."</p><p>"Hermione," He stepped into the room, "Don't worry about Ron, alright? He's just...coping in his own way. We all are."</p><p>She felt an ache in her chest, but nodded like it was okay. "I know."</p><p>She didn't know. She didn't understand. She'd tried, but... how Ron could act like nothing had ever happened was beyond her. That they won without any consequences. He'd lost people, too. His brother. His ex-girlfriend. People he'd grown up with. And still, he acted as if everything was fine. Like Hermione shouldn't still be grieving. Like there was a bloody time stamp on mourning the dead. </p><p>Some days, it took everything in her not to shake him by the collar, screaming and crying all the names of the people they'd lost until he understood. Because he should have understood. And why he refused to break was a question she had no idea how to answer. </p><p>"It's fine. We just have different ways of processing things, that's all."</p><p>"Right," Harry nodded distantly, "But Hermione... you're okay? I mean, with all things considered."</p><p>She almost laughed. No, she wasn't okay. She was nowhere near the word fine. </p><p>"I'm okay," The lie was so easy at this point, it was boring. "just tired."</p><p>Well, that part was the truth. She was tired. More tired than she'd ever been before. It took double the energy she felt it was worth to pull herself out of bed in the mornings. She barely even had the urge to brush her hair anymore, though she always did. Somehow, it'd become more engrained in her morning routine than brushing her teeth. </p><p>"Alright," Harry tapped the wall with the palm of his hand before turning away, "Good."</p><p>Harry was smart. Hermione knew that. And she also knew that it would be a miracle if he didn't see right through her act. Because if she was struggling, she could only imagine how he felt. She didn't know why she hadn't asked him about it yet. At least not in depth. Maybe she was afraid of hearing the answer he'd give her. She was certainly afraid of what her own answer would be.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>It was nearly one in the morning when Hermione finally gave up on falling asleep, slipping out of bed and grabbing the thing she wasn't sure why she was so drawn to.</p><p>The book felt cold against her fingertips, and she gripped it like it would try to run away, stepping over to the desk sitting against the newly-grouted wall. She slid the journal onto the smooth surface, pulling out her stiff chair and slumping down into it. She didn't bother to fix her posture, just curled over the desk and flipped the book open to a random page, her eyes scanning suspiciously over its blankness.</p><p>Nothing.</p><p>Not a single drop of ink stained the paper, and for some reason, it made her angry. Because there were so many things that could've been printed there. Maybe a list of people's names. People lost to the war who would surely be forgotten in time.</p><p>So Hermione pulled out a quill from the desk, dipping it in jet black ink and beginning to scrawl furiously—every single name she could remember on the spot.</p><p>Fred Weasley—she began.<br/>
Lavender Brown<br/>
Severus Snape<br/>
Remus Lupin<br/>
Nymphadora Tonks<br/>
Colin Creevey—</p><p>Her quill skipped on that name. For some reason, it hurt just a bit worse than the others. Hermione wasn't sure why. Maybe because he was so young.</p><p>The list went on for a while after that, until there were around fifty names, Hermione's hand left aching and sore. But she wasn't done. Because now, her eyes were getting that misty feeling in them, and she thought she might cry.</p><p>So instead of letting the tears fall, she continued to write. Only this time, it wasn't names. It was sentences. Angry, emotional sentences that she'd been too afraid to say out loud for some time now. They scribbled down on the page with such intensity that the ink was splattered all over the paper, smearing on the side of Hermione's hand and staining her sleeve. But she didn't care. didn't even notice until she could barely read her own handwriting anymore.</p><p>She finally halted her word-vomit, chest tight as she stared down at her work, messy and smeared with the laziness of her attempt. But she could still read it. Barely. It was lines upon lines of the same thing.</p><p>That she was so angry. Angry at everyone, and everything. Angry at Ron, for being so unwilling to see her side of things. Angry at Ginny, for pretending that everyone could just move on and live life normally again. Angry at Dumbledore, for not telling Harry more before he died. Angry at Voldemort, and the Death Eaters, and the Ministry of Magic. Even angry at bloody Draco Malfoy, who she was still somehow thinking about even hours after their run-in.</p><p>And just like everything else, it made her blood boil.</p><p>His name was smudged on her paper.</p><p>Dra—co Malf—oy</p><p>She tried to think back to moments before, when she'd written it. Why had she written his name down at all? He wasn't important to her. He was the last thing she should be thinking about, and she huffed frustratedly, shoving the thought of him away. Again.</p><p>She tried hard to ignore the fact that it lingered, and went back to writing. Only this time, she was calmer. More composed. Her handwriting was curly and neat like usual, and she sighed as she spelled out each new word. </p><p>I wish everyone would understand—she wrote, her breath hitching in her throat so abruptly that she almost choked—I wish I wasn't the only one feeling so alone.</p><p>A few moments passed, and nothing happened. The dark ink stared back up at her, bleeding slightly into the paper and making the letters just a little less defined. But the longer Hermione stared at it, the more she began to wonder why the ink was bleeding so... dramatically. The paper was soaking up the blackness like it was nutrients, making the letters expand and contract until they were swimming on the page, looking almost alive.</p><p>Hermione drew in a quick breath, pushing her desk chair back with a screech and standing abruptly. She'd seen enchanted books before, countless times. But this... this was different. Because as the letters suddenly begin to sink down into the fibers of the page, fading away from sight and disappearing completely, she could immediately feel it.</p><p>The shift.</p><p>The way the air twisted; contorted, like the whole world was a fun house mirror around her.</p><p>And a second later, it was gone. Gone like it had never happened in the first place. But Hermione knew that it had—that she couldn't possibly be imagining things. Because when she went back to the desk to check the book, the words were missing. Not all the words. Just the ones she'd written last.</p><p>I wish everyone would understand—had vanished completely—I wish I wasn't the only one feeling so alone.</p><p>Hermione was left staring blankly down at the paper, her mouth hanging open in disbelief. Her mind swam, just like it always did, and a thought suddenly hit her.</p><p>Tom Riddle's Diary.</p><p>Harry had told her that as soon as he wrote any words in it, the ink disappeared. But this didn't seem to be the same thing. Because this wasn't a Horcrux. It couldn't be. Voldemort was dead, after all, and they'd destroyed every last one. If they hadn't, he would still be alive.</p><p>For an infuriating moment, she was left addled. It was a feeling she despised, after experiencing it so infrequently. She hated unanswered questions, and couldn't stand the thought of not knowing how the book's magic operated.</p><p>She was sure she'd figure it out, though. In time, she figured out most anything. In fact, there hadn't been a question yet that had managed to stump her. So she was sure—sure, that this one wouldn't either. She just needed to do some research. </p><p>It was nearly two in the morning now, she realized, glancing at a tall standing clock on the wall. She wanted to go to the library. Desperately. It was all she could think about as she looked back down at the book, the words still missing from its page.</p><p>But she was also a rule follower, when she could be. And she knew that right now, she was supposed to be fast asleep, maybe even dreaming about a world in which the war had never happened. One where her friends never died, and her parents still knew her name.</p><p>So, tucking that part of herself away that was begging—screaming, almost—to go to the library, she shut the book with a smack, turning away from it and blowing out the candle on her bedside table. Wrapped in her sheets a moment later, and forced her eyes to shut, promising herself that first thing in the morning, she would find out exactly what kind of magic ran through the pages of that book.</p><p>And also, she'd work out a way to stop seeing bloody Draco Malfoy's face in her mind.</p><p>Merlin, it was probably those eyes of his. They were unlike anything she'd ever seen before.</p><p>And she hated them.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>She was awake before anyone else in the Gryffindor common room ever began to stir, and snapped straight out of bed, pulling on a thick, wooly cardigan and slipping the book under her arm. She was heading for the library minutes later, trying her hardest not to stomp down the stairs and nearly forgetting to smooth out her hair in the mirror.</p><p>The library was cold and almost empty feeling as she stepped into it, though she knew it wasn't even close to vacant, stuffed with so many books that Hermione could surely be entertained for an entire lifetime. Especially since they were all brand new. Maybe if she wasn't so angry about it she could have enjoy herself.</p><p>A desk appeared in front of her, and she slumped down into it, immediately cracking the book open on its surface and drawing out a quill and vial of ink. She dipped it once, deep into the black liquid, then began to write.</p><p>Hermione Grager</p><p>She started with her own name, waiting with bated breath to see if the words would stick to the page. They did. She tried again.</p><p>Harry Potter</p><p>Again, the letters remained.</p><p>Ron Weasley</p><p>Still there.</p><p>Hermione stalled, and wondering if she'd even be able to get the book to do it again. But maybe it wasn't names that it reacted to. It was sentences, like the one she wrote the night before.</p><p>The war was horrible—she tried—so many innocent people died</p><p>Again, nothing.</p><p>Now she was forced to think about how she'd structured the sentence before.</p><p>I wish everyone would understand—she'd written—I wish I wasn't the only one feeling so alone. </p><p>Maybe that was it. Maybe she had to say "I wish" before anything else. She tested her new theory.</p><p>I wish—</p><p>Hermione gasped quietly as the words began to swim on the paper, expanding and contracting until they started to fade, sinking down into the page until they were gone completely, the only trace of them left behind the imprint of where her quill had pressed down on its surface.</p><p>This time, though, the same feeling from the night before didn't follow the words. The air failed to shift at all—didn't even warp the tiniest bit as Hermione glanced around, waiting for something to happen. Maybe it was because she hadn't written anything following "I wish".</p><p>So that was it. She had to write "I wish" for the book to respond. But what happened once she wished for something? She was almost afraid to try anything out. After all, she wasn't really sure of how the magic in the book operated. What if she made a mistake, and something were to go horribly wrong?</p><p>No, she wouldn't be rash. She wouldn't write anything else down until she was sure of what she was doing. She wouldn't—</p><p>"Granger?"</p><p>The voice shocked her in the silence of the library, and she yelped, nearly jumping all the way out of her chair as she spun around to face him—Draco Malfoy's questioning gaze meeting her own. At first, she was somehow relieved that he wasn't someone else. Someone like Professor McGonagall, or Harry and Ron. But then, she remembered who he was, and her lips twisted into a frown. She cleared her throat in an attempt to break the strange tension, straightening her spine and looking him square in the eyes.</p><p>He almost seemed surprised as she did, like he hadn't expected for her to face him so boldly. But he simply readjusted his jaw, the line of it sharper than Hermione remembered it being, and crossed his arms. </p><p>There were almost purple circles around his eyes, looking even worse than they had the day before. Had he slept at all last night?</p><p>"Back so soon, Granger?" he said shortly, "didn't know your social life was that pathetic." </p><p>Hermione nearly scoffed out her next few words. "Didn't know you could read."</p><p>It wasn't the most creative insult in the world, especially since she knew that Malfoy could in fact read, and had always been just a few marks behind her in class rankings. But Hermione watched his lip quirk upwards slightly as she said it, and felt moderately satisfied. He reset his jaw again, and Hermione wondered if he has a tooth ache or something.</p><p>"Original, Granger."</p><p>He stepped past her, causing her to forward on her desk, trying her hardest to block the sight of the book from his view. But the movement only made him glance back towards her again, his brow quirked suspiciously.</p><p>"What've you got there? A book on how to seduce pathetic redheads?"</p><p>"No, actually," she retorted with a dignified upturn of her nose, "A book on how to get rid of nosy, slimy gits like yourself, who very rudely insert themselves where they don't belong."</p><p>Malfoy let out a low huff. "Clever."</p><p>"Aren't I always?"</p><p>And with a screech of her chair, Hermione pushed away from the desk, standing abruptly and turning to leave the room with the book in her hands. She wasn't sure of whether Draco watched her go or not, but she was sure that she didn't care.</p><p>She liked the fact that she got the last word in, though, and planned on doing the same if she ever had to speak to him again.</p><p>Merlin—she thought with a huff—what an unfortunate day that would be.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. 𝐼𝐼𝐼</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Hermione's walk to the Great Hall was brisk, since she was more than determined to speed as far away from the library as possible. It was early morning now, but late enough that students had begun to trickle down from their common rooms for breakfast. And just as expected, she spotted Ron, Harry, and Ginny sitting at the head of the Gryffindor table, an extra seat saved for her to join them. The book was tucked into a small bag hanging over her shoulder, and she silently prayed that no one would ask her where she went off to so early that morning. </p><p>When she sat down, taking a moment to adjust her skirt, she didn't notice at first—the way they were all staring at her. But when she finally glanced up, she saw it, and felt her face pale without hesitation.</p><p>"What?" she asked, but before anyone spoke, Ginny reached forward, grabbing Hermione's hands in hers. She just stared awkwardly for a moment, causing a nervous sweat to break out on the back of Hermione's neck as the three of them continued to study her.</p><p>"What is it?" she repeated, and this time Ginny sighed, clutching her hands tighter.</p><p>"We're so sorry, 'Mione," she said softly, turning to Ron and Harry as the both of them nodded. It was the look on Ron's face in particular that really made her uncomfortable. She'd never seen that look on him before. He appeared so...apologetic? Yes, that was it. But in a sad, horrible kind of way. She'd never seen him look so off-putting.</p><p>Ginny sighed again before she continued, "We haven't been here for you like we should have been. We've been selfish, and careless, and we've made you feel so, so alone."</p><p>The words falling from Ginny's lips nearly made Hermione's mouth fall open, and she faltered, blinking back at the youngest Weasley like her mind had gone blank. "Come again?" she breathed.</p><p>"Look—all we're trying to say is that we understand what you've been going though, after everything... and we're sorry for making you feel so isolated over the past few months. It was wrong of us to judge the way you're choosing to cope."</p><p>Again, Hermione could only stare. Because it was all hitting her at once—the realization that she now knew exactly how the book's magic operated. And the more she watched it play out in front of her unblinking eyes, the more she realized that she'd made a horrible, awful mistake.</p><p>I wish everyone would understand—her own words haunted her like a ghost—I wish I wasn't the only one feeling so alone.</p><p>"I—I have to go," she stood abruptly, causing all three of her friends to flinch.</p><p>"Go?" Ginny frowned. </p><p>"Yes, go. I have to be—um—Merlin, anywhere but here."</p><p>She heard Ron call her name as she tore away from the table, but didn't turn back around. She was determined to get away—far away from the strange, incredibly unsettling scene that had just played out in front of her. Because even though they'd just said all the things she'd been pleading with them to say for the last few months, she knew it wasn't real. And now her chest was tight with anger. But this time, she wasn't angry with anyone but herself.</p><p>She was smarter than this. She should have known not to mess with this kind of magic—the kind that had the ability to change the course of the future and mess with the flow of their reality. These kinds of things weren't supposed to happen. And Hermione knew that.</p><p>She knew that without a shadow of a doubt now.</p><p>Because that had just felt wrong. Like it wasn't really even her friends speaking. Just projections of themselves, controlled by some sort of dark, complicated magic that Hermione never should have touched.</p><p>Gods—she took in a gasp of air—why did her chest feel so tight all of a sudden?</p><p>Panic coursing through her, she gasped for breath and shoved open the door to the girl's lavatory, clawing at the fabric of her cardigan and undershirt until they were off her completely. She felt like she was suffocating. Like nothing she was doing to calm herself down was bringing the air back into her lungs, and she might never be able to breathe again.</p><p>Minutes passed, and the panic only continued to rise inside her, leaving Hermione to crumple into a ball on the floor underneath the sink, her knees pulled to her chest and her hands covering her face. Before long, she was crying. Ugly crying. She could hardly remember the last time she'd cried like this—wailing loudly enough for every person in the school to hear. And as the river of tears poured on and on down the sides of her face, she let her head fall back against the wall, sobbing up towards the ceiling and pretending that she could see some sort of happier reality above her head. She felt more pathetic than she ever had as she finally began to wind down, an amount of time she had no grasp on having passed with her huddled underneath the sink's basin. </p><p>She was sure it had been hours from how exhausted her body felt when she stood, wobbling slightly and grasping onto the brand new plaster bowl for support. But the feeling of it made her shiver. Because it was so fucking new.</p><p>It was fake.</p><p>It was like smoke and mirrors everywhere she looked, and before long, she decided that she had to get out of the bathroom. Because everything in the room had been repaired to perfection, and it made her want to vomit.</p><p>Walking through the halls was a bit easier than being in the lavatory, but still, she hid her reddened face from everyone that passed by. She wasn't in the mood to answer any questions on why she'd been crying, or worse—if she was okay.</p><p>She was sure that if someone asked her that, she would never recover.</p><p>The library welcomed her with a familiar and comforting silence, and she sighed with relief, happy to be away from the prying eyes of the students lingering in the corridors. And without any hesitation, she b-lined for the shelf where she'd found the journal the day before.</p><p>The spot she'd pulled it from was still empty, the space just the right size for her to slip the book back into place. But as she went to retrieve it from her bag, she stopped.</p><p>And a terrifying thought crossed her mind.</p><p>What if someone else were to find it? Someone with a much less reliable moral compass than her own. What would happen then?</p><p>Worst case scenario, that person would then have the power to change the course of not just their own lives, but everyone else's. And all it would take would be a quill and a bottle of ink, scribbling a single sentence onto the cursed paper.</p><p>So instead of putting the book back, Hermione drew away from the shelf, pressing the journal against her own chest and sucking in a quick breath.</p><p>It was only when she heard the sound of footsteps behind her that she turned around, her face blanching as she made direct, unavoidable eye contact with Draco Malfoy. Only this time, there was something different about him.</p><p>Because his sleeve was rolled up over his left forearm, and Hermione could suddenly see it as clear as day.</p><p>His Dark Mark. </p><p>He still had it. </p><p>But of course he did. Hermione felt stupid for ever assuming that it would have disappeared, even after Voldemort's fall.</p><p>But as soon as she glanced down at its dark, black-inked shape, her eyes wide and unblinking, she watched Draco flinch—saw him flick his hand quickly to his left sleeve and yank it down over his wrist. And suddenly, his face was paler than she'd ever seen it before. It was like instead of blushing, his embarrassment had the opposite effect, making him even more lifeless looking the longer she stared at the space of his forearm.</p><p>"Wipe that stupid look off your face, will you, Granger?" Draco hissed suddenly, and Hermione was snapped out of her trance, looking up into his eyes. "Don't act like you've never seen it before."</p><p>"I—" she could only blink, "Not in a long time."</p><p>They were suspended in silence for what felt like hours, each of them seeming too uncomfortable to make the first move, and Hermione wished he would just leave. She wasn't sure why he was there in the first place, but as long as he was, she found herself itching to stare back down at his arm. Maybe she could catch another glimpse of it under his sleeve.</p><p>Before she could, though, Draco shifted, moving from one foot to the other as if he wasn't sure what else to do with his body. But then he stiffened, standing even taller than before and muttering, "Have you been crying, Granger?"</p><p>The question was abrupt, and caught her off guard—like a slap to the face. She was sure he didn't know how deeply it cut into her, but in truth, she nearly choked, gripping the book tighter and wishing she could vanish into thin air.</p><p>"No."</p><p>"Really," he didn't pose it as a question. It was more of a statement of plain disbelief. She hadn't convinced him in the slightest.</p><p>"Yes."</p><p>"Hm," his eyebrows raised, and she realized that she hadn't noticed before how nicely they were shaped. It was a strange thing to focus on, but Hermione was trying desperately to distract herself from the persistent lump in the back of her throat. So she stared at them. His eyebrows.</p><p>"You've got a staring problem, Granger," his voice was colder when he spoke again, and she flinched. "Add it to the long list of your issues."</p><p>"At least one of my issues isn't a criminal record," she spat, and almost didn't realize what she'd said until his face twisted into an expression she'd never seen on him before. But she could identify it immediately as pure, burning rage. She didn't quite process what was happening until he'd approached her in a flash, standing so close that she could smell that strong waft of spearmint and cologne off his body, nearly making her lightheaded.</p><p>"I'd watch your mouth, Granger," he whispered, in a tone so low it was almost a growl, "Because speaking of my criminal record, I haven't forgotten some of the things I leaned how to do during the war."</p><p>Hermione shivered—staring up at him with wide, shocked eyes. Was he... threatening her? With what? Something he learned from his time with the Dark Lord? Or maybe from Bellatrix. Hermione knew how fond she was of torture. Especially the slow, dragged out kind.</p><p>Her mind suddenly crossed to that day. That day in his Manor. She remembered him watching it happen—every second of her arm being carved into. He'd heard every scream. Every cry. Watched her pass out on the ground when she was eventually too exhausted to keep her mind alive any longer.</p><p>"Is that a threat?" she whispered, and his lips only curled into a nasty kind of smile.</p><p>"Why are you so surprised?"</p><p>And then he was backing up in a quick movement, his back turning to her as he whipped away. She just caught the sight of his hand flicking back down to his left forearm, yanking at the fabric of his shirt and pulling it down even further before he turned around the corner of a bookshelf, disappearing from sight and leaving Hermione completely alone.</p><p>Once he was gone, she wondered if it hurt him—the Mark. After all, hers did. But that was different. That was a scar.</p><p>His was... something else. She wasn't sure whether she could call it a tattoo, really. Because that wasn't what it was. It was a visualization of dark, powerful magic that Hermione couldn't even begin to understand. At least not yet.</p><p>You see, it was that mind of hers. That curious mind that didn't like to let questions of any kind go unanswered that brought her to a new spot in the library, one that she hadn't visited since her second year at Hogwarts.</p><p>The restricted section.</p><p>Only, there was a problem. She couldn't get in.</p><p>She needed a signed permission slip from a teacher, and wasn't sure where she'd possibly get one of those. She was moderately confident that she could forge one, though the thought of it made her skin crawl, and she decided instead to think on it for a few days, stepping out of the library and into the hall.</p><p>With the book still tucked protectively underneath her arm.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>That night, she went about reversing the mistake she'd made the day before. The wish.</p><p>She flipped the book open on her desk, her eyes scanning closely over the page she knew to have written on. Because the list of names was still there, almost pricking her eyes with hot tears as she stared down at it.</p><p>Fred Weasley<br/>
Lavender Brown<br/>
Severus Snape<br/>
Remus Lupin<br/>
Nymphadora Tonks<br/>
Colin Creevey</p><p>She wondered for a moment how she would feel if Harry's name was on that list. After all, it almost had been. She could recall the moment when Harry had confirmed what she'd been silently fearing for months: that besides Nagini, he was the last Horcrux. And, in turn, that he had to die.</p><p>She could still feel the deep, bottomless pit seeming to crack open in her chest, as if someone had reached in and pulled out her heart through the gaps in her ribcage. It was still painful, even though she knew Harry was alive and well. Because she didn't know how she would have been able to go on if he hadn't made it out of the war, and she couldn't believe how bloody close it had come to that horror being a reality.</p><p>But that wasn't what she needed to think about right now. Because she had a wish to erase.</p><p>Hermione grabbed her quill and ink, setting the bottle up next to the book and dipping the tip deep into the black liquid. It submerged fully, coming back up stained with darkness before she brought it to hover over the paper.</p><p>She paused for a moment, unsure of how to move forward. Should she simply wish that the last wish hadn't happened? Could she even do that? Could she cancel out previous wishes? She supposed there was only one way to find out, and she wrote a fresh sentence atop the page, her hand trembling slightly.</p><p>I wish to take back my last wish.</p><p>The words sat for a moment before starting to swim, and Hermione watched with bated breath as they sank down into the tiny fibers, vanishing from sight and leaving the page blank once more. Briefly, she was satisfied, because she figured she'd done it. She'd successfully canceled it out, and she'd just have to wait until tomorrow to see the effects reversed on her friends' attitudes.</p><p>But then, the sight of more movement on the paper caught her eye, and she looked back towards it, her stomach dropping. Because in an instant, the words had re-appeared on the page just as they were before, only now, there was something else written below them. And as her brown eyes scanned over the two short letters, she could feel her blood running cold as ice in her veins.</p><p>No</p><p>It said: No</p><p>Hermione could only blink. Because she hadn't been aware aware seconds ago that the book was able to respond. And somehow that made things ten times worse. Oh, and also the fact that it had just told her: No. It flat out rejected her request to reverse the previous wish, and her stomach twisted painfully at the thought of all the harm she could have caused. What if she'd wished for something more dramatic?</p><p>What if she'd said: I wish that Ron would admit to the fact that he feels every bit of pain I've been feeling, and I wish he wouldn't have the ability to roll his bloody eyes at me any more.</p><p>Poor Ron might have ended up with eyes that were now permanently frozen in one position, and a new wave of depression that would've been all Hermione's fault.</p><p>She suddenly felt sick, and slammed the book shut, swallowing down a wave of nausea and flopping onto her mattress. It didn't squeak like it used to. Merlin, what was she doing? Why had she messed with the book in the first place once she'd realized what it could do? She never should have touched it.</p><p>And now, she wasn't sure if there was any way to reverse her friends back to their previous—albeit obnoxious—states. She couldn't believe she was actually missing the way Ron made her feel before. The way Ginny treated everything like a small hiccup. A brief pause in the regular course of their lives. Not a whole bloody war. Not a massacre.</p><p>Harry was the only one who hadn't really changed at all. But still, Hermione felt sick. Sick, and exhausted, and empty.</p><p>So with a new stomachache, she climbed into bed, trying to shove the thought of the journal out of her mind. Maybe this was just a bad dream. Maybe all of it was. Hogwarts. Magic. Voldemort. All just a long, incredibly exhausting dream.</p><p>And maybe she would wake up tomorrow morning in her regular, muggle bed, with her regular, muggle parents that still knew her name. They would make her something simple for breakfast, like eggs and toast, and kiss the top of her head like they always used to when she was little.</p><p>Maybe she would forget about the dream within minutes, like she usually did, and it would never come back to haunt her like a nightmare come to life.</p><p>Maybe.</p><p>But Hermione knew better than that.</p><p>Because she'd never been a dreamer. She was too grounded in reality for that. Sometimes, she was far too grounded, and had found that it got pretty heavy after a while.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. 𝐼𝒱</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Hermione's patience only lasted two days before it snapped like a bowstring, and she couldn't stand it anymore. She wanted to know more about the Dark Mark. No, she didn't just want to know. She needed to know. The lack of answers was itching—burning at her insides like a sickness, and if she didn't tend to it soon, she was going to explode.</p><p>Step one was to get the permission slip signed. The one that would give her full access to the restricted section of the library. She debated between a few different professors before eventually deciding on McGonagall, who she assumed would be understanding enough. Or at least, she hoped. </p><p>Regardless of her relative confidence, her hands still shook as she asked the question, gesturing the blank permission slip towards her teacher.</p><p>"And which book are you trying to find?" Professor McGonagall glanced up from across her desk, an expression pulled across her features that almost seemed like suspicion. Though at this point, Hermione wasn't sure why it was necessary. And what was the point, really? It wasn't like there was much trouble for Hermione to get into anymore.</p><p>The war was over, though sometimes she could have used a reminder. </p><p>"Well, that's just it," she felt the paper between her fingertips, crumpling it at the edges. "I don't know which book I need yet. I might have to search around a bit to see if I can find what I'm looking for."</p><p>Professor McGonagall quirked a brow. "And what are you looking for, Miss Granger?"</p><p>Hermione hesitated, wondering if she should just tell her the whole truth. After all, it wasn't a secret that Draco Malfoy still had The Mark. It was just a fact that people tried to avoid talking about. Because it was strange. Strange that he was back, amongst all the people who fought on the opposite side of the war as him. Back with Hermione, who he'd done nothing to help when she was tortured on the floor of his drawing room. And back with Harry, who Malfoy surely would have loved to maim during the course of the final battle. But it was clear to her that no one had forgotten who he'd pledged his allegiance to, the name Malfoy having become such a controversial subject that it almost felt like a curse word coming off her tongue.</p><p>"I saw Draco Malfoy's Dark Mark a few days ago," she stated plainly, "and I wanted to learn more about it."</p><p>For a moment, it seemed that Professor McGonagall hadn't heard her. Because there was a delay in the downward twisting of her lips. The way her fingers threaded together on her desk and formed a single fist. She looked Hermione up and down for a beat like she'd said something unforgivable, and then she sighed.</p><p>"Then you will not find what you're looking for in the library." Hermione's brows furrowed at her words, which her professor took as a go ahead to continue. "There is not much known information about The Mark. And even if there was a book on it, those titles would certainly not be held in our school."</p><p>Hermione frowned, and felt the paper in her hands again. She was beginning to regret this encounter.</p><p>"So...you won't sign this, then?"</p><p>"I didn't say that." Professor McGonagall unclenched her fists, "I will sign it. I'm just warning you that your efforts may end up being unsuccessful."</p><p>"That's fine," she nodded, "Thank you, Professor."</p><p>"Of course," Hermione watched her smile weakly as she slid the paper towards her, and McGonagall signed it with a lazy scrawl, her handwriting in loopy cursive lettering. As Hermione picked it back up, her professor suddenly reached forward, laying a hand on top of hers.</p><p>"I hope you're not letting yourself dwell on the past for too long, Miss Granger. It can be a very dangerous thing, constantly asking yourself 'what if'."</p><p>Hermione kept a blank face as she spoke, because she was beginning to grow afraid that if she let herself react, she might crumble. Especially since it was Professor McGonagall in front of her, who had watched her grow up since she was eleven years old. She'd seen her through every stage of her teenaged years, and lying to her now felt like lying to a part of herself. </p><p>"I'm not," she said, "I'm just curious about The Mark, that's all. I think it could be—therapeutic, almost, to learn about how it works. Help me to separate the history behind it from the incredible complexity of its magic."</p><p>"Very well..." Professor McGonagall's glasses were halfway down her nose as she looked up at Hermione, and she pushed them back with her pointer finger, "I wouldn't want to see you get lost in memories that will bring you nothing but pain. All we can do now is try to move forward."</p><p>Try to move forward. It was almost funny again.</p><p>Hermione left without many more words, quickly thanking her professor once more and ducking out into the hallway. She clutched the paper between her fingertips as she fled, and glanced down at the handwriting scrawled across its surface.</p><p>Professor McGonagall—it read.</p><p>For a second, she wondered if she'd come to regret it—trying to learn more about The Mark. Worst case scenario, she'd find out something that would make her pity people like Draco Malfoy. But she doubted it. Because they didn't deserve her pity. He didn't deserve it. </p><p>After all, she hated him.</p><p>She hated him.</p><p>Maybe she should write that down in the journal—she considered quickly—as a reminder.</p><p>A reminder that she hated him, wholeheartedly, and he absolutely did not deserve to be pitied.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>That night, the library was quiet, and Hermione finally felt like she had some time to think. Inhale, exhale, and think, just like she used to.</p><p>Because thinking—problem solving and coming up with solutions—came just as easily to her as breathing. She liked to picture life like a giant puzzle, just waiting for its pieces to be placed in the right pattern. Hermione was also great at solving puzzles, mind you, a gift that had proved rather useful more than once in her lifetime.</p><p>But now, there was no puzzle, per se. Only a cursed book. And in addition, a burning series of questions in the back of her mind about a certain kind of marking.</p><p>Madame Pince looked less than pleased when Hermione presented the slip of signed paper to her, with a smile so fake she was almost ashamed to wear it. But the librarian seemed tired this late at night—far too tired to ask any questions about which book she was looking for, and Hermione was let past the barrier line into the restricted section of the library with no resistance.</p><p>Her heart was slamming just as quickly as it had second year as she strode back into the darkness. She wasn't sure why she still got this feeling whenever she broke the rules. Well, she wasn't breaking the rules, really. She'd gotten a signed permission slip, when she could have just asked Harry to borrow his invisibility cloak. Merlin, why hadn't she thought of that until just then? It certainly would've been less trouble than going to Professor McGonagall, and raising her suspicions of Hermione for the millionth time in her school career.</p><p>But it was too late now, and she let out a frustrated sigh as she scanned her gaze across the towering shelves on either side of her.</p><p>A deep inhale, and there was that smell again. That biting scent of chemicals and fresh paper that made her nose burn and scrunch up. It was like she was allergic to it, and she was almost convinced that the air itself was making her itchy.</p><p>She wasn't exactly sure of what she was looking for as she stepped through the book lined passageways, her hands wringing together with nervous energy. Why was she nervous? She was only looking for information, like she'd done a million times before. It was just that this time, it was different. Everything was different, and she couldn't keep comparing things now to the way they'd been before.</p><p>Her thoughts were rudely interrupted as she spotted something, just out of reach on a shelf to the right of her. It was the title that caused her to stop and thin her eyes as she drew her wand from her pocket.</p><p>The First Wizarding War—Part 1</p><p>"Accio The First Wizarding War, Part 1," Hermione said, pointing her wand up towards the title until it wedged itself free from the shelf. She watched it float down...down...down until it was laying flat in the palms of her hands, and she cracked it open eagerly, scanning through the table of contents until she found something to latch onto. A chapter so perfectly titled: The Dark Mark.</p><p>She couldn't believe she'd struck such gold as she flipped to the page listed in the table. Page 394. And as she landed on it, her eyes going wide as she moved her her pointer finger across the text, she saw it.</p><p>The Mark.</p><p>It was only a drawing this time, but it was unmistakably the same symbol she'd seen etched into the skin of Malfoy's forearm. And she realized in that moment that she'd never really taken the time to look at it. At least not so up close, and in detail.</p><p>It was almost...eerily beautiful, in a horrible, terrifying kind of way. With a skull symbol at the top, snaking down into a serpent's body and a fanged, open mouth at the end. It curved and curled and sent a shiver up Hermione's spine as she began to read the paragraph printed below it, the font almost as curly as Professor McGonagall's handwriting.</p><p>The Dark Mark—it began—is a complicated, but prime example of the type of Dark Magic the Dark Lord employed during his first rise to power. The Mark itself acts as not only a symbol of a Death Eater's allegiance to the Dark Lord, but also as a way of communication. When Voldemort wished to summon his army, he was able to call them through a burning sensation in their Marks. They were to apparate to his location whenever this sensation occurred. The Mark was a marker, itself, of those closest in Voldemort's inner circle. Not all those who were loyal to him received it. Therefore, it was regarded as a great honor to be branded with it, and only a select few were awarded such a "privilege" from the Dark Lord himself. The color of The Mark is directly connected to the status of the Dark Lord's health. When he was at the height of his power during The First Wizarding War, The Mark appeared dark black with defined edges and no fading. However, the longer the Dark Lord failed to reappear after his death (see chapter 4 on Harry Potter and his unintentional defeat of the Dark Lord), the more The Mark faded into a light gray kind of color. In some cases, it was almost completely gone. As of now, there is no known way to remove the Mark, unless someone wishes to chop off the lower section of their arm. But even then, the Dark Magic The Mark contains makes it almost impossible to not bleed to death after the amputation of the limb.</p><p>Hermione stopped, closing the book with a sharp crack and taking in a deep, shaky breath. It was more information then she'd expected to find, and she found herself suddenly overwhelmed by the amount of it.</p><p>The Mark had only been only given to those in Voldemort's innermost circle. That information stood out rather boldly. Because she wasn't aware that Draco Malfoy had been one of Voldemort's most valuable followers. No, that couldn't possibly be true. He'd never even murdered anyone. He'd tried, with Dumbledore, but failed. So the information didn't line up.</p><p>Maybe he was an exception to the rule. A fluke. A ripple in Voldemort's carefully crafted system. He'd made a mistake with Draco Malfoy, assuming he was ready for something like a war. A war against the people he'd grown up with, though Hermione was sure that didn't matter much to him in the grand scheme of things.</p><p>After all, there was no doubt in her mind that he hated her just as much as she hated him, and she couldn't imagine that protecting Hogwarts or the people in it were contributing factors in Malfoy's inability to murder his Headmaster.</p><p>Maybe he simply had a shred of decency in him after all. Maybe he just wasn't a murderer.</p><p>There was something else that kept popping back into her head, too. Another sentence.</p><p>There's no known way to remove The Mark.</p><p>It was a fact she'd suspected to be true, but for some reason, reading it in print struck her more deeply than she'd expected.</p><p>Not because she felt sorry for any of the Death Eaters, reformed or still loyal. But more because she hated that it even existed anymore. Hated that there wasn't a quick spell to get rid of it, so that no one ever had to see it again. Maybe then, she could forget. Even forgive...</p><p>Hermione was suddenly too worked up to read any more. All she could do was tuck the book under her arm before hurrying back towards the front of the library and spotting Madame Pince once more.</p><p>"Excuse me," she walked up to her desk, her fingers curling protectively over the book's spine. "I was wondering where the second part of this series is? I could only find part 1."</p><p>"Ah," Madame Pince's eyes flicked down to a drawer in her desk, and she pulled out a thick, moldy looking binder from its insides. "Let me see if someone's checked it out recently..."</p><p>Hermione picked—pulled and yanked at the sleeve of her sweater as the librarian searched for the information, her fingertips barely grazing against the edge of her scar as she messed with the fabric. She jolted, sucking in a quick breath as Madame Pince finally looked back up at her, an answer to Hermione's question on her lips.</p><p>"Yes, unfortunately the book you're looking for is checked out at the moment. I can notify you when it's been returned, if you'd like?"</p><p>"Oh yes, that would be brilliant." Hermione nodded, "May I ask, though, who's checked it out? Maybe I can ask to borrow it from them."</p><p>Madame Pince glanced down again, and suddenly raised her eyebrows as she read the name, a huff of a laugh escaping past her lips.</p><p>"Hm," she made a small noise, "It appears it's currently checked out by Draco Malfoy, since two days ago."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Hermione didn't sleep that night. She wanted to. But she couldn't.</p><p>Because all she could think about was Draco Malfoy, the book he was so rudely hoarding, and his bloody Dark Mark. She wasn't exactly sure why she was so invested in discovering more about it. Maybe she was just interested in what it reminded her of. The kinds of nightmares it brought back. She wondered idly why she was subjecting herself to such horrible flashbacks.</p><p>But Malfoy's Dark Mark was an unanswered question in her mind, and she knew deep down that no matter how terrible it was for her to be thinking about it—about him—as much as she was, she wouldn't be able to let it go. Not until she knew more information.</p><p>She also knew that she was going to ask him about the book she needed, whether he wanted to have the conversation or not. She wasn't sure how he'd react to her bringing up his Mark again, but in all honesty, she didn't care.</p><p>She was past the point of worrying about what people thought of her, or being careful with her questions. Especially when that person was Draco Malfoy, who she hated.</p><p>Hated.</p><p>Merlin, she still needed to write that down somewhere.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>She was up before everyone else again, and sitting by the common room fireplace with a newspaper between her fingertips. She was flipping through it distractedly, not paying much attention to the headlines when she heard a noise from the staircase, and looked up to find the familiar glint of Harry's glasses and his dark head of hair.</p><p>He was due for a trim, she noticed. It had grown out longer than he usually kept it, almost like how it looked fourth year during the Triwizard Tournament. She smiled weakly, remembering that year in its entirety.</p><p>She recalled saying something to Harry and Ron just as they were about to leave for the Hogwarts Express. </p><p>"Everything's going to change now, isn't it?" she'd whispered, half hoping someone would tell her that things were going to be fine. But Harry had responded simply, with a hand on her shoulder.</p><p>"Yes."</p><p>Could he have guessed, then, how true that statement would turn out to be? </p><p>Harry stepped towards her in the present, his face lit up by the light streaming through the windows, and she wondered who he saw when he looked at her. Did he see the girl he met on the train first year, with frizzy hair and an unquenchable thirst for as much knowledge as she could possibly grasp? Or did he see the girl who went Horcrux hunting with him. The one who watched her school—her home—crumble before her eyes. The one that wiped her parents' memories of her and never looked back.</p><p>The one that barely existed anymore.</p><p>"Restless night?" Harry said, slumping down on the couch next to her.</p><p>"You could say that."</p><p>There was a slight pause before Harry began again, "I used to have nightmares, too, you know. I've told you all about them. I still get them sometimes, even though I know it's over."</p><p>"I'm not having nightmares."</p><p>"It's alright if you are, Hermione," he continued, "It's normal, especially after..." There was a hesitation in his voice, but he said it anyway. "Everything that's happened." Hermione had to fight to keep from wincing. She hated when people said it like that. Reduced the entire war to a simple 'everything that's happened'.</p><p>But Harry must have noticed something in her expression sour, because a worried look pinched his features before he shifted closer to her side, resting his hand against her shoulder.</p><p>"I'm sorry," he softened his tone, "Did I say something?"</p><p>"No," Hermione lied, meeting his green eyes. "No, I'm just tired." Tired. There it was again—that excuse she'd used more times than she could count. Wasn't he sick of hearing it by now? Sick of pretending to buy into her half-truths? </p><p>"Listen, about what Ginny said the other day—we really do mean it. We all want to be there for you, better than we have been so far."</p><p>"Harry," Hermione shook her head, "It's fine. I don't need you all to treat me like I'm a piece of glass that's about to shatter."</p><p>"That's not what I'm saying." Harry softened his eyes, "I just don't want you to feel like you're alone in this. You're not. You have us."</p><p>Hermione only nodded. It was all she could think to do other than snap.</p><p>"I know," she lied again, hating how bloody easy it had become, "I know you're all here for me. You always have been."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Hermione could smell the library before she spotted it, that horrible bite of chemical assaulting her nose. But she walked in despite the unpleasant scent, The First Wizarding War—Part 1 tucked securely under her arm.</p><p>She was there on a whim, to see if maybe—just maybe—the person she was looking for would be there too. And if he was, then it would save her the trouble of having to go down into the Dungeons to find the Slytherin common room. It was something she hoped to avoid at all costs, and as she rounded the corner of a bookcase, she stopped.</p><p>Because suddenly, she saw him. He saw her. And he looked less than pleased that she'd appeared before him yet again.</p><p>He was leaning back against a bookcase as she approached, his long legs crossed near his ankles and shoulders slumped forward. He was wearing a gray sweater and black pants, a white collared shirt tucked underneath the jumper. And he was holding a book. Not the one she was looking for, judging by the title on its spine, but a book nonetheless. And for some reason, the sight of Malfoy reading threw her off.</p><p>Because it made him look so... human. So dignified. So... not like a former Death Eater.</p><p>But as he glanced, then quickly glared up at her from under his eyelashes, the book snapped shut between his palms, and he slid it back onto the shelf, crossing his arms over his chest. A frustrated sigh released from his nose before he spoke.</p><p>"Let's not make this a pattern, Granger—meeting here."</p><p>Hermione stiffened before she responded, "Trust me. I don't want it to be."</p><p>"What are you doing here then? Because I believe you're the one who just approached me, not the other way around."</p><p>Hermione shifted her weight from foot to foot, biting at the inside of her lip. She just needed to blurt it out. Otherwise, she'd never muster up the courage. "You have something—a book that you checked out a few days ago. The First Wizarding War—Part 2. I need it."</p><p>Draco seemed to pause, and for once, it was almost as if he didn't know how to respond. She could see it behind his eyes—the turning of the cogs in his brain to try and figure her out. To come up with a reason as to why she was asking.</p><p>"You need it?" he repeated with a raise of his eyebrows.</p><p>"Yes, I need it. As soon as possible."</p><p>Draco snorted. "As soon as possible? What are you playing at, Granger?"</p><p>"Nothing," she said it more defensively than she'd meant to, and Draco quirked his brow again.</p><p>"Hm," a ghost of a smirk played on his lips. "Well, I hate to tell you, but I'm actually a very slow reader. Dyslexic, maybe. So it may take me weeks—months even, to get through it."</p><p>She rolled her eyes, and began to protest, "Malfoy, please—" before he rudely interrupted her.</p><p>"That is, of course, unless you tell me what this is all about. And don't bother making up a lie. I pride myself on being able to see straight through people's poker faces."</p><p>Hermione twisted her sweater sleeve between her fingertips, until she'd stretched the fabric in a way that was surely irreversible. And before she could decide against it, she spit it out—the truth he was so interested in. "I want to learn more about The Dark Mark."</p><p>For the second time ever, Malfoy appeared taken aback. It took a second for his expression of aggravation to form, delayed by a slight flicker of intrigue. And there was something else, buried deep in the gray of his eyes. A flash of something she couldn't place. She tried, but the way he scoffed effectively sliced through her thought process.</p><p>"You're a bloody idiot, Granger. That's ridiculous."</p><p>"Is it?" she prickled, feeling more offended than she'd expected to. After all, she'd been called much worse things by Draco Malfoy than a 'bloody idiot'. "I think it's only natural to be curious."</p><p>"Curious?" he furrowed his brows, "It's the fucking Dark Mark you're talking about, and you're curious?"</p><p>Hermione wasn't sure why the idea was so hard to grasp. And she also wasn't sure why hearing Draco Malfoy curse was so startling. Almost... attractive? No, not attractive. That's not what the twisting feeling in her gut meant. And if it was, she was sure it was misguided. Sure it was confused.</p><p>"Yes."</p><p>"Merlin, you may be even thicker than I originally suspected."</p><p>Suddenly, Hermione's face was on fire. Because she could handle a lot of things. Stomach a lot of different insults. But her intelligence was something no one had ever dared to attack. It had kept her afloat. Alive, even. From the first time her sharp mind had payed off, when she was mastering spells before any of the rest of her classmates, to the last times, when her wit had saved her and her friends from horrific deaths on multiple occasions.</p><p>It was the thing she clung to when there was nothing else of her left, so Malfoy calling her 'thick' was surprisingly more offensive than 'Mudblood' ever had been.</p><p>Before she'd even realized it, she was scowling. So dramatically that Draco actually placed his pale, slender hand against his chest, flashing a sarcastically regretful expression.</p><p>"Have I offended you, Granger?"</p><p>Hermione only tightened her jaw, and could hear the grinding of her molars as they scraped together. "Don't you always?"</p><p>"That's the objective."</p><p>Years of learning how to get under her skin had definitely paid off for him. He knew exactly how to do it now, quick and easy, like ripping off a bandaid.</p><p>"No matter," she straightened her spine, and took a brave step towards him. It seemed to cause him to falter again, and for the split second before he recovered to his previous smug smirk, she was satisfied. Maybe he found the idea of her physical proximity off-putting. Good. "You asked why I wanted the book, and I gave you an answer. I wasn't asking for your opinion on it."</p><p>Draco scoffed for what felt like the millionth time.</p><p>"You're not going to find anything, if that's what you're looking for. I've already read it."</p><p>His sentence made Hermione hesitate, and she could feel the gears in her brain turning. He'd already read it? A question crossed her mind like a bolt of lightning.</p><p>Why was Malfoy researching the Dark Mark? He had it. Why would he need to? Couldn't he just pull up his sleeve and make some observations?</p><p>But there was another question, biting at the back of her mind and forcing its way forward.</p><p>Was it possible that he was trying to find a way to remove it?</p><p>Hermione blinked, trying to come up with a sentence that wouldn't scare him off. She had a feeling that if she tried to slip into the conversation too suddenly, he wouldn't be willing to participate. She would have to draw it out of him, bit by bit until she had what she needed. And it was only then that she realized that Draco Malfoy's knowledge may be more useful to her than that in a library book.</p><p>"I'd prefer to read it myself," she pretended she hadn't put the pieces together, "Maybe you've missed something. And I won't."</p><p>"I doubt it," Malfoy began to step past her, but she moved directly in front of him, watching as he jerked back like she'd reached out to strike him. "Christ—Granger, what the fuck?"</p><p>"Are you going to give me the book or not?"</p><p>"No, I'm not."</p><p>"It doesn't belong to you," she seethed, growing incredibly frustrated with his resistance. "It's—it's the school's property."</p><p>"But as of now, it's checked out under my name." He sneered down at her, his lip still tweaked into that crooked, infuriating smirk. Hermione wanted to hex it off his face. And she could have. Her wand was in her pocket, and she didn't see his anywhere on his body. "I'm not aware of any restrictions on how long you're allowed to keep a book."</p><p>"But Madame Pince—"</p><p>"Read my signed permission slip that granted me access to it for as long as I need." He rolled his shoulders back, "Which I've just decided is until the foreseeable future."</p><p>Hermione fought back the urge to slap him, instead digging her nails into the palms of her hands and exhaling furiously. Why had she expected Malfoy to be even the least bit cooperative? Maybe she'd thought the war might have changed him. It had certainly changed her. But she'd always tended to be miles more mature than Malfoy, and she wasn't sure why she was surprised now that he was still the same slimy, arrogant git he used to be.</p><p>She had to remind herself that maybe the war hadn't been the most monumental event in other people's lives. Some, like Malfoy, clearly saw it as just another obstacle they'd overcome in the long march of life. And he'd overcome it, alright, somehow being on the losing side of the battlefield and still coming out relatively unscathed.</p><p>"Better luck next time, Granger," Malfoy sighed, crossing his arms over his chest, "Though I really do hope you don't try this again."</p><p>He was gone the next second, striding past her with those long, thin legs of his and disappearing around the corner of a bookshelf. Hermione could just barely make out a flash of blond through the gaps in the rows, and she groaned, more than disappointed in the outcome of her confrontation.</p><p>It was only once she'd left the library, and was halfway back to the Gryffindor common room when the idea struck her.</p><p>It was the realization that she didn't need him to agree.</p><p>She just needed to make a wish.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The journal felt the same between her fingertips, though she wasn't sure why she expected it to feel any different. Maybe because now, she was afraid of it, with its shiny black cover and its blank, almost too white pages.</p><p>She was afraid of what it could do, but she was also desperate to get her hands on the book Malfoy wouldn't give her. She was also rather sick of being patient. Sick of waiting for things. After the whole Horcrux hunt, Hermione had begun to realize that her ability to bide her time had crumbled quite significantly. She was impatient now. Impulsive.</p><p>And she couldn't hold herself back any longer as the book's pages flipped between her fingertips. She reached the same spot she always turned to, the list of names flashing up at her. She didn't bother to read it again. She knew what it said all too well.</p><p>A quill and ink were beside her a moment later, and she dunked the tip into the shining midnight liquid.</p><p>She needed to be careful here. Precise and clear with her wording. She couldn't leave anything up to the interpretation of the book. So for a while, she only sat in silence and debated between phrasings, until she'd finally come up with a sentence that she figured couldn't be taken any other way.</p><p>I wish that Draco Lucius Malfoy would give me the book 'The First Wizarding War — Part 2' tomorrow at 3 o'clock when I go to the library at Hogwarts, School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.</p><p>She watched the words sink down into the page before she snapped it shut, tossing it back into her bag and sliding underneath her covers.</p><p>And she hoped—prayed—all through the rest of the impossibly long night that she hadn't made a mistake using the book again. Though she was sure that somehow, someway, she'd come to regret it.</p><p>After all, she had a lot of regrets these days.</p>
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<a name="section0005"><h2>5. 𝒱</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>At 2:45 PM the next day, Hermione starts determinately towards the library, her heart slamming so quickly in her chest it's almost painful. She can't remember the last time she was this nervous about something. Maybe not since the war ended. Though, she isn't really sure where the anxiety is coming from. Maybe because she feels like somehow she's done something wrong. She doesn't know if her wish will work. And even if it does, what if she's made some sort of horrible decision? Changed the future in a way that'll come back to bite her later.</p><p>The sick feeling persists even as she rounds the corner of the library entrance, coming into the room and glancing around for that unmistakeable flash of blonde. And just like she wished for, she finds it, standing against a different bookshelf this time, but looking mostly the same as he had the day before. The only real difference is the new sweater he's wearing, this one deep green, and one other thing that draws her eyes instantly.</p><p>A book. Cracked open in his hands as his pale eyes scan over its contents.</p><p>It only takes a moment before his gaze flicks up towards her, and settles on her face, her expression pinched and guarded. She's not sure of what he's about to say. Will the wish somehow change his attitude? Or will he just give her the book and leave?</p><p>She isn't sure, but just as she's about to open her mouth to speak, he beats her to it.</p><p>"Back again, Granger?" he huffs, "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you missed me."</p><p>Ah, so the wish hasn't affected his attitude at all. Somehow, she's relieved, but also suddenly confused. Why hasn't it affected him like it affected the others? Not the most recent wish, but the very first one. Draco, it seems, hasn't changed at all like her friends have. If anything, he's only become more aggravated by her prolonged presence, and doesn't seem to be trying to console her in the slightest for the events of the war. How can that be? Does the wish not affect him somehow? Has he found some sort of loophole to evade the magic?</p><p>She glances back at the open book in his hands, and hurriedly shoves the question to the back of her mind. She has plenty of time to stew over the complications of the journal's powers, she figures. But now isn't the time. Now, she has other things to accomplish.</p><p>"Not in the slightest," she says through a smirk she knows will aggravate him. "I came to check out another book. Why are you back?"</p><p>Draco hesitates, and seems to be unsure of the words he's about to speak. She wonders if the magic is screwing with his head. She's sure that he remembers how adamantly he didn't want to give her the book the night before. And now, if she's made her wish properly, he'll have suddenly changed his mind. She figures he must be confused, and not entirely confident in his decision.</p><p>"It's funny you ask," he snaps the book shut between his palms, holding it against his chest. "Recognize this?" With a flick of his wrist, he twists the cover towards her, the golden-fonted title flashing across her vision.</p><p>The First Wizarding War — Part 2</p><p>A smile spreads over her lips, and she nods. "Yes, I do."</p><p>"It seems I've had a change of heart," Draco sighs, seeming to be frustrated by his own words, "Turns out, I don't need the book anymore. I absorbed everything I need to know already. So, it's useless to me now."</p><p>"Oh?" Hermione tries to swallow her excitement. But also, tries to not seem too unsurprised. </p><p>"Yes..." again, he speaks as if he's unsure. Or at least, actively fighting the decision. "So I suppose you can take it."</p><p>She begins to walk towards him, but before she can get too far in his direction, he tosses it, not seeming to pay any mind to the fragile binding as the book flies towards her. She's forced to practically dive to catch it, cursing under her breath as it lands in her arms. Safely.</p><p>"Thank you," she grumbles, standing back up and fixing her sweater. "I appreciate it."</p><p>"Don't thank me, Granger," he scoffs, "I'm not doing this out of the kindness of my heart."</p><p>She almost laughs. He's not doing it at all. "Well, frankly, I don't really care what the reason is. I'm just glad you changed your mind."</p><p>Draco only makes a small sound, raising his eyebrows in acknowledgement. There's a moment of pause before he speaks again, and Hermione fills it by taking in his full appearance. She's absolutely sure now that he's taller than he was before. Maybe by a few inches. His legs are long, his arms the same, with slender hands and nicely manicured fingernails.</p><p>She smirks at the idea of Draco Malfoy having a nail care routine.</p><p>The rings draw her attention next, glinting even in the dim light of the library and causing her to pause as she counts them. Four total, on both hands. One of them is thicker than the others, with the outline of a silver snake carved into it.</p><p>When her gaze finally flickers back up to his face, she lets herself look at it. Really look at it. At him. More intensely than she ever has before.</p><p>His jaw is sharp. Sharp, but not too dramatic to the point of looking unnatural. His skin is just as pale as ever, almost the color of the pages in the book she's holding. His eye sockets are a bit more sunken in then she remembers them being before the war. Or at least before 6th year. She recalls seeing him the first day of term back then, and noting that he looked rather ill.</p><p>She'd mentioned it to Harry a little while later. Of course, they'd chalked it up to the theory that he'd recently become a Death Eater, which had, in the end, been correct. Still, Hermione couldn't help but notice how sick he looked. Each day, it only seemed to get worse, until eventually he was so gray that it appeared he might vomit any second.</p><p>He's a little more alive looking now. Less sickly. But still, not a picture of perfect health. Though she supposes she isn't either.</p><p>It's only when she feels the prickling sensation of his gray eyes on her that she snaps out of her trance and meets his gaze again, sucking in a quick breath as she comes back into reality.</p><p>"Have you got something else to say, Granger?" he pries, and she only shakes her head.</p><p>"No," she begins to step backwards, moving further and further from him, who's still leaning against the shelf. "No. I just got lost in thought for a moment."</p><p>"Better than you trying to talk to me, I suppose." He quirks his brow, and she turns away.</p><p>"I agree."</p><p>She leaves before he can get another word in, not bothering to thank him again as she heads back to the Gryffindor common room, the book tucked under her arm. After all, why would she thank him? He hasn't done anything for her.</p><p>If anything, she should thank herself, for coming up with such a clever solution to her Malfoy problem. It's the journal's doing that she has what she wants, and she feels a smile creep over her lips, the victory almost too sweet to be real.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>She scans through the table of contents quickly, trying to find it. Those three words she's so desperate to understand. But there it is.</p><p>The Dark Mark — 103</p><p>She's never flipped to a page so quickly, and her eyes flick hungrily over the print, eager to absorb whatever information it has to offer.</p><p>But that's just it.</p><p>There's not much there. Just six measly sentences, and another sketch of the symbol, making her stomach drop to her feet.</p><p>There's still no known way to remove the Dark Mark—it reads—but there have been new developments in the knowledge of its effects on former Death Eaters who try to resist its magic. It can be any kind of resistance. Mental, or physical. But any attempt to go against The Mark can leave a Death Eater extremely ill, or even dead. As mentioned in the first installment of this series, any attempt to physically remove The Mark would result in certain death.</p><p>Hermione stares down at it like it's the worst thing she's ever read, and she can't shake the feeling of looming disappointment over her shoulders, hanging like a storm cloud.</p><p>This can't be it. There's got to be something more. More information. More details. More anything.</p><p>But there isn't. She spends the rest of the night scanning through every page of the book, her eyes getting so tired that she feels like they're being dragged down by anchors. But still, she finds nothing. No other mention of The Dark Mark, even in passing, and she slams the book shut, groaning and smashing her face into her pillow.</p><p>Sleep finally envelops her as light is just beginning to trickle through the windows of her dorm room, but even as she drifts off into her dreams, all she can see is that bloody symbol.</p><p>She wonders which nightmare it'll trigger this time.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"Hermione."</p><p>She can hear voices swarming around her, all melding together in the chatter of the Great Hall. But she's far too exhausted to open her eyes. Far too tired...</p><p>"Hermione?"</p><p>There it is again. Is someone talking to her? She's just so...exhausted...</p><p>"'Mione!" A hand shoves into her arm from the side, and she lurches, head snapping upwards and eyes fluttering open. Her vision is misty for a second before she's able to focus on Harry's face in front of her, his arms resting on the table, and Ginny by her side. Ron's next to Harry, his mouth stuffed with some sort of flaky pastry, and Ginny rolls her eyes at him, disgusted.</p><p>"Do you ever stop eating?" she scoffs, and Ron only gestures like she's greatly insulted him.</p><p>"I'm hungry," he protests through the breading of whatever it is in his mouth. Crumbs of it fly onto the table, and Ginny makes a gagging noise. It's all too much for Hermione after such a horrible nights sleep, and she has to actively fight against the urge to collapse again.</p><p>But even through the exhaustion, and the slight headache that's appeared over the past few minutes in the Great Hall, Hermione can't bring herself to stop thinking about it. About him. And it's driving her up the walls of her own mind, trying to figure out how Malfoy was somehow able to avoid the magic of the book when she used it the first time. </p><p>She'd wished for everyone to understand. Wished that she wasn't the only one feeling so alone. </p><p>Her mind spins for a moment, the cogs and gears in her brain turning until they click into place, an answer floating to the front of her mind. Or, a possible theory, rather.</p><p>Maybe it's just that Malfoy already feels alone. Maybe he already understands. And maybe—though she can't really imagine how it's possible—he feels even more isolated than she does. After all, he's a former Death Eater, back at school with a horrible reputation and the Mark still seared onto his arm. No one, besides Hermione, has even tried to get near him since the start of term. Not even Harry, who probably hates Malfoy even more than she does. He doesn't seem to have any friends left, either, even in his own house. Snape is gone, too, along with his father, who's once again gotten himself locked up in Azkaban. </p><p>So Malfoy, as much as he might deserve it, is left with no one. </p><p>No one, while Hermione at least has—well, half-has—her friends. </p><p>So yes, maybe he was able to get around the wish by already fitting it. Because if there wasn't anything to change, it wouldn't change him...</p><p>"Hermione," Harry's voice brings her back into focus, and she looks towards him, catching a concerned expression. "Will you eat something, please?"</p><p>"Oh, no," Hermione pushes her plate of food forward on the table, "I'm not very hungry." A worried look passes between Harry and Ron. She furrows her brows. "What?"</p><p>"Nothing," Ron mutters, "You just seem..."</p><p>"What?" she repeats again, harsher this time. Ginny flinches. </p><p>"Different. That's all." Ron shoves another fork full of food into his mouth, talking through the eggs and bacon between his teeth. "You don't seem to be getting much sleep."</p><p>"I haven't gotten much sleep since the war ended," she says lowly, "So really, nothing's changed."</p><p>Another concerned look between the three of them is what finally sets her off. </p><p>"You know what?" she sighs, pushing back from the table and standing, "I'd really rather not have to explain myself to all of you today. So enjoy your morning classes, I'll be in the library."</p><p>She hears Harry say her name softly—almost like a plea—before she strides away, her chest rising and falling with frustrated breaths.</p><p>As she stomps past the end of the Gryffindor table, leaving the Great Hall behind, she can only pray that the library will be empty of a certain blonde's presence when she reaches it.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>NOTE: I'm currently in the process of editing this fic and changing it to past tense. I'm aware that the first four chapters are in past tense and this one is still in present. But it will be fixed shortly!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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